I WATCH THE clock in Jeremy’s truck hit 7:40 p.m. I am pushing it, breaking my own rules, outside later than I should be. Dr. Derek would not approve, but Dr. Derek can go screw himself. I want to do this. Try this. And if I fail, then Jeremy is here to stop me. I have no weapons on me; he’ll return me home soon, in time for lockup, so everything should be fine. I just want one night. One night of normalcy. I deserve this after behaving for so long, trying so hard. I’ve left the apartment at this time for the last two Saturdays. Bought lotto tickets and ice cream and not killed anyone. So tonight should be easy.
Now, I accelerate. We just left dinner, a barbecue restaurant where I ordered ribs and Jeremy let me pay, reluctantly accepting once I pointed out that he has fronted my dinners for months now. He still has some barbecue sauce on his mouth; I can see it out of the corner of my eye, a dried bit of yummy, begging to be licked off. He turns, catches my eye, and reaches over, loops his hand through mine. I smile, my eyes returning to the road, the rough hum of the engine reassuring me.
Jeremy wanted to drive, thinks it establishes some form of caveman masculinity, but I haven’t driven in so long and am not passing up the opportunity. To have the windows down, wind ripping through my hair, the fresh blast of air, however cold it may be, reminding me that I am alive. Alive and living. The seat is warm on my legs and back, my body glued to them, the heater placing a gentle touch on my arms and face before the night air steals it away. I take the exit that Jeremy indicates, the ramp curving steeply, my foot on the brake long enough to pause, then there is a small squeal of truck tires and we are heading up. I didn’t even know there were hills in this area, flatness seeming to be the only game in town. But here, fifteen minutes outside of town, we are curving down and then up the swells of a hill, Jeremy tapping on my arm and pointing, my foot easing off the gas, and we pull off and park.
At eight, a winter fireworks display is scheduled. I haven’t seen fireworks since my family was alive. That night five years ago, we had packed up snacks and blankets and headed into town, spread out on an open bit of park lawn and watched the sky light up above us. Trent had cried from the noise, Mom had deserted us to get the car, and Dad had pulled the twins into his lap, shooting me a reassuring smile. Trent had quieted, Dad’s arms strong around him, hands covering his little ears. And we had watched the remainder of the show, the display of colors, taking our time, waiting until the end before collecting our things and meeting Mom at the car.
7:58 p.m. I can do this. I step out of the truck, no one in sight, just him and me, alone on the side of the road, high enough that we can look down on the city. He unrolls a blanket, puts it on the hood of the truck, close to the windshield, and holds out a hand. Helps me up onto the hood, then joins me, his arm wrapping around me and pulling me back, reclining us both against the windshield, the sky above us dark.
Stars. My fascination continues, not hampered by time. Ever since I scraped off the old paint and freed my window, I have snuck an almost daily look at them, the rare nights off a continued attempt to prove to myself my level of control. Sometimes just a glance, sometimes a stare, sometimes I sit on the open sill and take my dear sweet time, watching them until my vision blurs, and I stumble over to bed. It is as if seeing them reassures me that I have a choice. I have freedom, I just choose to celebrate it inside my apartment. I interrupt my star worship and lean against Jeremy’s shoulder, loving the fit of my body under his arm, his other hand coming around to fully wrap me. I close my eyes, smiling when I feel his lips, warm on my forehead, his hand brushing back the hair to bare the skin for his kiss.
“Thank you,” I murmur against his shirt, “for bringing me here.” I look up, into his eyes, the close proximity letting me see the thick eyelashes that frame his green eyes.
He shifts, his hands moving lower until they are around my waist and he lifts, surprising me, my hands gripping his shoulders, my legs moving as he drags me atop his lap. I shift, repositioning my legs until I am straddling him, my knees against the blanket, his hands soft on my waist, his face looking up into mine. “I love you,” he whispers. He pulls at my coat, lifts his mouth to mine, but I stop him, place a hand on his chest and look into his eyes.
Vulnerable. They look vulnerable. He loves me. I forget, for a moment, to breathe. It is here, the moment I have fought, hoped against while secretly desired. I am loved. Me: dirty, rotten me. The man hasn’t even had me, our touches restricted to heavy petting and third base, our dates mostly centered on food or bringing me items I have been deprived of. “You don’t know me enough to love me.” I grip his jacket, pin him into place with my eyes, make sure that he hears the words I hate to say. “The things that I think of, the things that I have done… I am not worthy of being loved by you.”
“We don’t choose who we love, Deanna. You are beautiful to me. Perfect to me. Despite what you struggle with. Your struggle…” His eyes leave me for a moment, searching for words; then they come back to me, wisps of smoke leaving his mouth in the chilled night air. “Your struggle is part of what makes you beautiful. You don’t see what I see. You don’t see the good person that I know that you are.” He runs a hand up my back, tugs firmly on my hair. “Don’t argue with me. I know how I feel. I just wanted you to know. I’ve been holding it in too long. I love you.”
He tries to pull me to him, to kiss me, but I stop him again, my hand firmer this time as words spill out that I have no business saying. “I love you too.” I make sure that he sees me, understands me, the second time the words coming out softer. “I love you.”
It is a horrible thing to say, this is a terrible moment for the future of our relationship, for the future of my rules and control and safeguards. But his mouth tugs into a grin, the widest I’ve ever seen it, and I don’t fight it when his hands cradle my head and pull me to his mouth. Behind me, the fireworks begin their display, the shake of the ground fitting the moment when our lips meet.
I kiss him and push aside the howl of my conscience. In this moment, I don’t want to think about the future and what disasters it may hold. I kiss him and celebrate the rush of love and passion and elation. I am a girl in love with a boy and—at eight on a Wednesday night—am getting kissed underneath fireworks. Hello normal, I am Deanna. Nice to make your acquaintance.
In that moment, in that kiss, I choose to believe anything is possible. I choose to forget all of the horrible things that “anything” can include.